


Nevertheless, He Persisted

by Heavybomb (Rhoadstar)



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 08:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19849753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhoadstar/pseuds/Heavybomb
Summary: Lythallendar Duskreaper is not a model student.





	Nevertheless, He Persisted

The other students are less subtle this year about their jeering and whispering. In the halls, in the classroom, in the field carefully built for their exercises. He’s learned to tune them out by now, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice them. At least they are no longer about his appearance; he’s gotten taller, fat and muscle has been properly distributed, and his face has lost the soft, delicate curves it possessed before. In fact, he never hears another snide remark about his looks ever again. But, as younglings were, there was always something else to talk about.

‘There’s Lythallendar again. Look at him. His mother is a Magistrix, and yet he can’t even cast a single spell properly without flubbing it up.’

That was in response to his attempts at a simple fireball. He spends the rest of the day smelling of burnt hair and smoke. His Mother has a new set of robes sent immediately.

'Another spit in the Madame’s eye, that one is. What’s the point of going to Magister school if you can’t use magic?’

His skin is peppered with razor thin cuts that burn everytime he runs his fingers over them; it is the effect of taking a hit from a shattered ice bolt that had been splintered the second the teacher realized he was unable to properly Counterspell it. The student who had cast it at him is unrepentant, and her sharp laughter sticks with him the rest of the day.

'He’s better off playing Farstrider like his brother and sister; does he really think he’s pleasing Mummy by wasting her money and resources? She must be daft.’

His father has tried to talk him into going to the recruitment office; he even offers to put in a good word or two about his resilience. Lythas is stubborn, of course, determined to make his Mother proud. He wants to give her the mage child she’s always wanted, someone to carry on her legacy. After he rearranges the face of the student who insulted his Mother with his fists, he’s reprimanded sharply and given detention for the rest of the day.

'He’s how old and still in what year? You must be joking!’

In a class full of first years, he stands out. It’s not just his uncommon colouring for a High Elf; the glossy black hair, pale skin, and rich purple eyes. Broader and taller, stronger and clearly more mature, he is confused for the instructor until he takes his seat at the front of the class. The course on Arcane Basics begins. So do the whispers.

***

He is called to the Headmistress’s office shortly after break period one day. There is nothing but a dull sort of anxiety flowing through his veins as he’s admitted into the room, but soon it flares up into a painful throb once he sees his Mother and Father waiting inside. The look on his Mother’s face is anything but amicable, and his Father is unreadable as usual.

This is the first time he’s seen them in a room together since god knows how long.

“Do not bother taking a seat, Lythallendar. This shan’t take long,” his mother’s low, dark voice spills from between blood red lips.

He is taken out of the school. Mother refuses to waste one more gold piece and her reputation. His Father is briskly ordered to take him to the Barracks. Not the Farstrider barracks, but the actual military. He spends the majority of the ride in the carriage pleading with his Mother, begging her to give him one last chance. He will prove to her, one way or the other, he says, that he is worthy to gain the title of Magister, and he will gladly intern himself to her if it will make her happy.

She laughs at him. She laughs at him, and it feels like what was left of his fragile self-esteem shatters.

His Father draws him into an uncharacteristic hug as they exit the carriage. “She doesn’t mean to hurt you, Lythas,” he murmurs into his ear. “She’s just disappointed. She’ll feel better once I take her home.” And away from you, were the words left unspoken. But Lythas hears them anyway.

Lythas ignores his Father. Kel'thaloren Duskreaper was not good at comforting, and he never will be. If one is never there to learn how, how would they improve?

He watches his Father get back into the carriage with his Mother, and he sees how she resolutely ignores him. He can hear the painful silence that was sure to permeate the small space all the way to the Summer Estate.

He picks up his bag and turns towards the sounds of swords clashing, the grunts and shouted commands of officers, and meets the critical eye of the Head Recruiter. He can feel the man’s gaze roaming over his meticulously pressed mage robes, his pale, soft hands, and his delicate silk slippers. But when the older elf’s gaze passes over Lythas’s expression, his scarred, grizzled face cracks a faint, humourless smile; Lythas knows he can see the determination in his eyes.

Lythallendar Thaloren Duskreaper makes his way over the dusty earth. He heads towards the small, practical office the Head Recruiter stands before, and reassesses his priorities by the time he reaches the door.


End file.
